Disappear
by usakeh
Summary: This story consists of some missing scenes from Noel and stars Josh and Donna.
1. Chapter 1

_I saw you in the silence. I saw you in the darkness. Crawling through the pillars of your pain._

(Starlite #1 – Mojave 3)

Josh froze. The glass was scattered all over the floor, shining reflected light out into the darkness. The cold air was streaming in, stinging at his cut skin. Outside cars were still passing by, moving under the careful coordination of the traffic lights hanging over the busy intersection. Below, time was passing. People were pressing down on their accelerators and moving towards their homes; people were breaking and waiting their turn on the way to the movies; people were pausing and allowing pedestrians to cross while considering where to go eat out for dinner. Whether they were waiting or gliding down the city streets they did not have to worry; time, for them, was still passing.

Einstein's Postulates of Special Relativity hold that the universe has only one constant. In any and all reference frames, the speed of light is always the same. When taken to its logical conclusion, this implies that time would have to slow as particles approach the universe's ultimate speed limit. Josh had done the calculations, and he knew. The closer any particle got to moving at three hundred million meters per second, the slower time passed within its reference frame relative to a stationary one. As he stood by the window, motionless, Josh understood one thing: he was moving pretty damn fast.

Even the sound of the sirens seemed to slow, stretching out into one long, lingering wail. Voices blended, blurring together. Three hundred million meters per second. How many more seconds would he have lasted there in Rosslyn had he not been found? But time could slow at speeds approaching three hundred million meters per second. Really, he had had nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

Somewhere in the back of Josh's mind he felt himself letting go. This is what it feels like to move that fast. This is what it feels like to feel yourself crumple and contract, crumbling down into flickers of fading thought and emotion. This is what it feels like to stand back and watch the disintegration of your entire personality. This is what it feels like to go so infinitely fast that time comes to a stop–

–and you disappear.


	2. Chapter 2

_Can't you tell me what's happening to me?_

(Can't Make a Sound – Elliott Smith)

Josh stared up blearily, rubbing his eyes. In front of him, a man in a blue suit and checkered tie whose name was escaping him was speaking, slowly and steadily. Josh sat up straight, wondering how much longer the meeting would last. He overheard the man say something about economics and debt relief and then drifted off again, his mind returning to the shattered glass he had left lying on the floor of his apartment. There was something reassuring about the way his hand stung; he deserved it, to be sure. Still, it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to excuse his recent outbursts of rudeness, his moodiness, his apathy and laziness. He was accomplishing nothing. Thousands of dollars had been spent merely to fix up his broken body enough to keep him alive; countless hours had been devoted to his well-being by attentive doctors and nurses. And how was he repaying them? By behaving like this. Josh gazed down at the table, tracing the lines in the deep, rich wood. Then, gathering his energy, he willed himself to pay attention. He would pay attention. He had to pay attention! The man had stopped speaking and Leo was responding, his tone calmly decisive. No, they could not sanction the proposal without international approval; yes, they considered it an excellent idea in theory; no, they did not know how much money they could devote to the venture. Josh shook his head, brushing his hair back with his uninjured hand. The words were all blurring together until it seemed as though Leo were speaking another language altogether. He was listening, but he did not understand a thing.

Josh's breath caught in his throat and he coughed. Leo's pause was barely perceptible, but the deputy still caught the older man's quick turn towards him. He hadn't said a thing the whole meeting. He had just sat there uselessly, wasting space. Josh felt as though an overwhelming weight had collapsed upon him. The heaviness spread through his body, a constant reminder of his failures, of his fraility, of the futility of even attempting to---

"I'm sorry." Now Leo was staring at him openly, his brow furrowed in frustration."I'm sorry that we can't immediately forgive the entire debt, that is, that we can't immediately agree to back, to back this proposal." Josh had never felt so inarticulate in his life. Shamed, he returned to his study of the tabletop, scarcely noticing Leo's troubled sigh. The others began speaking again, and Josh once again attempted to listen, to understand, to contribute, but the only two words he heard, repeated over and over again, were---

---_I'm sorry_.


	3. Chapter 3

_You lose it all, you bring it back again._

(Too Many Mornings – Mojave 3)

Josh trudged up the stairs to his apartment, his feet feeling heavier with every step. He used to take the stairs everyday; after all, he only lived on the third floor and there was no use wasting time waiting for the elevator. But now three flights of stairs seemed to be three flights too many for him. After reaching the second floor the young deputy paused and sat down, short of breath. The stairs hadn't been painted in years; for all the building's pretensions at luxury nobody had bothered to do anything much about them. Josh sighed, the smell of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke thickening about him. The young couple living in the floor below his had been holding a party last night; he had heard their music humming up through the walls. They'd probably gone out onto the stairs to get drunk. If he didn't lose his job he'd probably be able to afford a new apartment soon and move out of this place. It was growing more disagreeable by the day.

A few minutes later Josh flopped down on the couch, shivering as cold air drifted in through the broken window. It was going to be a long night. If his nerves and nightmares didn't keep him awake the wind most certainly would, and Josh wondered for a minute exactly why he'd declined Donna's offer. She had warned him about the window and invited him over. She'd even promised to let him have her bed and go sleep on the couch. Josh couldn't decide whether he'd done well in being too proud to take advantage of her pity or had just been being stupidly self-destructive, once again. It was always the little things, after all – a few missed doses of medication here, a skipped meal there, several nights worth of sleep spent pacing the apartment even after he knew he was exhausted. What was the point? What was the use? Why, Josh asked himself, did he feel like he deserved punishment? Or was he simply sabotaging himself in order to have an excuse for the failures that were inevitable, anyway?

The deputy flicked the TV on and started surfing the channels, his eyes stinging from the sleepless nights. With one more click he made the flickering images fade to black and then leaned back, closing his eyes. Thoughts spiraled through his mind; he considered each one detachedly, as if he was slowly disconnecting and drifting away from the body that held him back on the couch. Donna had complimented him and claimed that she cared. Leo had promised him he'd always have his job, PTSD notwithstanding. CJ had cast him a concerned look and a quick smile. Sam had patted him on the back. Even Toby had helped him out with a kind word, today. But who were they kidding? None of them cared.

Yes, they cared about Josh Lyman, the White House Deputy Chief of Staff. They worried that he'd fail, that he'd embarrass them, that he'd do something stupid in public and put pressure on them all. But as Josh opened his eyes and slowly stared out the open window he realized he didn't feel like Josh Lyman, White House Deputy Chief of Staff. He didn't even feel like Josh Lyman. Instead he was just some shifting, shapeless being falling down through space. Disintegrating. Dying, if he wasn't already dead. Josh Lyman, the White House Deputy Chief of Staff, had died at Rosslyn. Josh Lyman, the bright, confident, ambitious achiever had died at Rosslyn too. The man that remained was just Josh, an idle, useless being who barely made it to meetings and couldn't even walk up the stairs. Nobody cared for that Josh, least of all himself.

"We get better," Stanley had said. Josh Lyman had believed it. Unfortunately, Josh Lyman disappeared as soon as Josh had stepped out of Donna's car. He had never been anything more than a façade, and now even the façade was failing him…

Josh shuddered. They'd given him pills at the Emergency Room, enough to last him for a while. They'd stop him from panicking. They'd knock him out if he needed sleep. They'd kill him, if he took enough.

"I didn't wonder," Josh Lyman had said. I knew, Josh had wanted to add. I knew. He'd never do it, of course; that took courage, and he had none of that. It was the logical thing to do, really. Josh Lyman the deputy had died; Josh Lyman the personality had died; now it was his turn to get rid of whatever was left. His so-called friends wouldn't mind. The man they cared for had already gone.

The knock sounded once, twice, three times. Josh ignored it, waiting until he heard the door begin to open before getting to his feet. Anger rising within him he walked out of the living room and ended up face to face with–

"Donna? What are you doing here?" The words were terse, spit out starkly into the darkened room. For a long moment his assistant said nothing. Was it that there was nothing to say, anymore? Every combination of words applicable to the situation at hand had been exhausted weeks ago. What more could she want? What more could she possibly want?

Josh's eyes darted towards the table, which was littered with dirty plates and crumpled newspapers. He had never been a neat man even at the best of times, and these past few weeks the apartment's state had been steadily deteriorating. Josh stepped back, fighting a sudden urge to pick up the plates and smash them, slowly and methodically, against the wall. He shuddered. Stanley had been wrong. PTSD was just an excuse. The real truth was that he, Josh, was flawed. Failed. Unfixable. He could control himself if he wanted to, but he just preferred to have an excuse. Yes, that was it. An excuse.

"DONNA, FOR THE LAST TIME, WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" Josh could barely recognize his own voice. Maybe it wasn't even his. Maybe he had left his body altogether and was being held up by an impostor, a fake, a–

The door slammed and Donna stepped towards him. Her hands were on his shoulders. Her eyes were wide open.

"You shouldn't even have to ask."


	4. Chapter 4

_You know this place, you know this gloom. We've been here before. Life is a loop, you're in a room, without a door._

(Pick Up the Phone – The Notwist)

Josh took a deep breath and turned towards the window, his gaze drifting from the broken shards of glass to the sharpness of the city lights below. His head was aching, and a sudden exhaustion swept over him. He didn't even have the energy to be desperate or worried any longer. He was tired. He was tired of himself and tired of the situation and tired of having to stay stuck in the same moment day after day after day.

"Josh?" Donna was shaking him slightly. Donna was coming closer. Donna's arms were around him and she was pulling him towards her warmth. "You're shaking, Josh."

Josh squirmed slightly and stepped back from Donna's embrace. He stood as still as he could, a shaft of light from the neighboring building cutting across his face. She was right. He was shaking. Josh tentatively raised his uninjured hand and held it out before him, trying his best to hold it still.

"You're shaking. That probably means that you're cold. It's freezing in here!" Donna's hand was holding onto his.

"C'mon, Josh. Let's get you out of here. Let's go."

Patronizing. She was being patronizing. Josh's eyes narrowed; he pulled his hand out of Donna's grasp. If he was brave he'd be quiet. If he was brave he'd stop being so manipulative and make her leave him alone. If he was brave he'd know enough to keep his feelings from flowing out into the room, forcing her to stay and comfort him when he didn't deserve it.

"You shouldn't be here." The words were soft, spilling out into the cold air. Donna began to answer him, but his voice then burst angrily into the air. Josh began to pace as he spoke, his eyes turned down towards the ground and his forehead furrowed in frustration.

"You shouldn't be here. You've no right to treat me patronizingly. You've no right to let yourself into my apartment. You've no right to assume that you know what I want and what I need better than I do. How dare you tell me what to do! I'm an adult, Donna. I'm not some lost little schoolboy. I'm not four years old anymore!" He had let them comfort him then. He had let them convince him that it hadn't been his fault that she had died. This time he was going to be strong. He wasn't going to flinch. He was going to face the truth.

Thoughts clashed and collided in Josh's mind; he felt his headache intensify. He was going to face the truth, wasn't he? Who was he kidding? He didn't know the truth about anything. He hardly knew who he was anymore.

"Get out." He was shaking harder; still, his voice was steady. "GET OUT." It wasn't Donna's problem.

He slumped back on the sofa and closed his eyes. Donna's footsteps were fading gradually; she was leaving, heading towards the door. He would be alone. He would be alone with the sound of the sirens; only self-pity, that small, sickly flame, would help him fight the darkness off. What could be worse? Josh shuddered. For a second he felt Josh Lyman, White House Deputy Chief of Staff, wake from his long slumber. You have no sense of perspective, do you? Snap out of it. How dare you ask what could be worse? Josh sat up weakly, blinking.

A moment later his breath caught in his throat. A shadowy form was standing in the kitchen, stirring some liquid in a pot. He could see her fine features and long hair sway slightly; he could see her silhouette wind its way across the wall.

She had stayed.

He struggled to his feet; still, she did not turn around. A few steps later he was beside her. He could feel the warmth of her body as it drifted out into the air.

"I'm sorry, Donna. For this and – and for everything. You shouldn't be here. Not because I don't want you to but because I don't – I don't deserve this, Donna. You shouldn't be here. You should–"

"How dare you tell me what to do!" Donna placed the spoon down on the side of the stove.

"If you think I'm here for your sake you are very much mistaken, Joshua. I just want to protect my own interests. If you get fired I won't have a job anymore now, will I?" She paused. "And if I drove away and you – and something – something happened to you – I would–"

Her arms were around him again. This time Josh leaned forward and let her hand rest over his.


	5. Chapter 5

_Just because you feel it doesn't mean it's there._

(There There – Radiohead)

Donna watched as he slammed the door behind him and quickly turned the key in the lock. She buttoned her coat, trying to calm the conflicting emotions churning about within her. She was angry at him. She was angry at him for pushing her away; she was angry for him for being proud and arrogant and oh so determined to do everything alone; she was angry at him for not dodging that bullet at Rosslyn and for allowing himself to get so full of rage and resentment and self-recrimination that she could barely recognize the Josh Lyman she knew, anymore. But she was frightened, too. She was frightened by the way he had apologized so very meekly, by the way he mumbled instead of filling every phrase with energy and emotion. How could she be angry when he was barely a shadow of his usual self? How could she be concerned when he rejected the help she offered as worthless, futile? Somehow, she was both.

Soon enough they were at the elevator, standing there together as the dial dropped from the fourth floor to the third. The door opened; they stepped in, silently. Josh shifted uneasily as the elevator began to drop, and Donna gazed awkwardly down at the ground. She could still remember the way he had almost clung to her in his apartment, his hands resting, cold and clammy, in hers. But that moment was gone; now she felt as though they had merely formed a temporary truce, nothing more.

What was the matter with him, anyway? The thought formed and Donna fell behind Josh as he walked out into the lobby, unable to meet his eyes. Why couldn't he just cope with it? Donna shook back her hair, frustration brushing away her compassion and concern. He didn't have any excuse. Did he think she hadn't felt awful when she'd first seen him lying still on the stretcher, his face bleached by the surgical lights? Did he think she hadn't suffered right along with him as she'd sat in the waiting room, wondering whether or not he'd make it out alive? She'd felt anguish; she'd felt terror; she'd felt pain. But she hadn't allowed herself to snap. She hadn't alienated and hurt her friends. She hadn't–

"Did you forget something?" Donna looked up instantly.

"What?"

"I mean, did you forget something? The way you, er, keep – keep walking behind me – I was wondering if you'd, if you'd left something in my apartment." Donna shook her head and then paused for a moment, considering him. His voice had seemed less flat this time. Josh's voice was distinctive. In every sentence it always rose and fell dramatically in pitch, sometimes even swinging from low to high or high to low in a single word. Josh was expressive. Each syllable transmitted emotion – excitement, concern, curiosity, irritation. But in the last few weeks it had stiffened somehow, leveled off. All she could hear was an ever-present tension, a numbness. The shadows below his eyes had grown deeper and deeper.

"No, it's fine, Josh." She hurried to catch up with him. The complete openness that had overcome him as he fell into her arms had merely faded, not vanished. There was a vulnerability about him still, in the way he waited for her, following her with his eyes.

"You sure?" There it was, again. His voice rose with the end of the query. Donna nodded, her eyes brightening, and walked him out to her car. She slid into the driver's seat; Josh sat down beside her, still shivering. Was taking her boss home appropriate? Donna nervously brushed back her hair before starting the car and pulling out of the parking lot. The last thing they needed now was to get into some sort of scandal. As they stopped for a red light she looked towards him, ready to ask.

"Josh, do you think–"

She broke off the sentence halfway through. He had that look on his face again, the one she hated. She'd seen it for the first time one night she'd come to visit him in the hospital. He'd woken up abruptly; the panic had been plastered across his pale features. He'd shaken it off, said it was nothing. He'd done the same every time after that, even when she'd burst into the room and found him sitting in a corner of his office looking like it hurt to breathe. It had taken him a few seconds to respond, that time, but the answer was always the same.

"What?" The tone, too, was familiar. It wasn't his usual irritation, which always had a hint of good spirits lurking behind it. It was tension, pure and undiluted. Donna pulled over to the side of the road.

"What are you–"

He began to snap at her; a second later he fell silent. His eyes were wide open. She could see the beads of sweat sliding down his forehead.

"Josh. Josh, what is it? Just tell me." She had decided not to major in psychology pretty fast but she could still identify a panic attack. "Try and breathe slower." She'd read something online about it. "Hyperventilating changes the pH of your blood and makes you panic. I read about it, I–"

As if that was going to help.

"Josh, you're safe. You're here, you're safe. Just talk to me." He was ignoring her, as usual. He was locking himself up; he wasn't letting her even try and understand. Then he'd probably go and complain about it.

"I can't, I can't breathe slower." Donna did not move a muscle. "I heard the siren back there at the…at the hospital we just passed…and then I…I can feel the bullet where it hit me. I want…I want to move, I have to move…when I move it only makes it worse…it's…it's too small…they didn't give me space."

What was she supposed to do? Donna's mind raced, searching for a solution. Music? No, that'd make it worse. Should she drive? Should they stay? Should she make him walk? He said he wanted to move, but he said it made him worse! The website hadn't said how to get rid of them! Neither had her psychology professor, whose name was Dr. Webster or Dr. Wesser or–

That was when she remembered.

It had been the night after the psychology final that her best friend had tried to kill herself. She'd gone to the hospital and she'd lain there, pale and motionless. They'd made her sleep in the hospital for a week and she'd gone to visit. It had been the boy in the hallway when she was passing by. He'd started screaming; she'd tried to talk to him until the orderly came. Stunned, she'd stood by as they'd made him start to snap his fingers, following a rhythm. He'd calmed, slowly.

"Josh, I know this sounds silly, but – but just listen – just – I'm going to start clapping. You just – snap at the – I know it sounds silly, just do it, you'll be better. Just snap at the same time." That had been it. Josh was still breathing too fast. He looked faint. At least he wasn't screaming. Donna shuddered as the boy's expression came back to her; then she began to clap.

If only it would work.

She wouldn't feel half so silly if he cooperated. He wasn't going to cooperate. He was just going to sit there not being able to breathe and fall unconscious and he'd have to go to the Emergency Room again and–

"Okay." Donna clapped; Josh snapped his fingers in return. It felt like some strange code neither of them had taken the trouble to work out yet. Donna clapped twice; Josh snapped twice. Three times. Four times. Three times. Four times. And again…

"How did you know?" They were driving again. Josh had sprawled out in his seat. She'd thought he'd fallen asleep.

"And I thought you were sleeping."

"Can't sleep after that. I was resting. But how did you know?" Donna sighed.

"It's a long story. How about I explain it to you once we get back? I'm just glad it worked."

"It goes away after a while anyway." Donna felt her confidence slip slightly.

"Oh."

"But no, it helped. It really did help. I never would have thought of doing that. It gave me something to concentrate on. It was a good idea." Josh yawned.

"Good. I had to tell you I felt pretty stupid at first, just sitting there clapping for no reason." Donna glanced at him.

His eyes were closed again, but she could have sworn he'd smiled, for a second.


End file.
